


Reading You

by wunderlichkind



Series: wunder's OtherOutlanderTales [6]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming of Age, M/M, Pining, parisian adventures, pen pals to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-07-23 20:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16166222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wunderlichkind/pseuds/wunderlichkind
Summary: Roger and Fergus first get to know each other through a pen-pals program in school - the relationship progresses when they meet in person as exchange students.





	1. Part One - The Letters

Roger was more nervous than he could remember ever being; not on his first day of school, not when he had played his first concert, not when he had first kissed a girl, not even when he had realized that kissing girls wasn’t for him.

He was standing in the high school’s parking lot, waiting to get into the minibus taking them from Inverness to Aberdeen airport. And to a plane, waiting to fly them out of Scotland to Paris, Charles-de-Gaulle.

They had prepared for the exchange program by writing letters – each of them to an assigned student, the one they would be living with during the week they’d spend in Paris. 

„At least one letter,“ Mrs MacCarthy had said, dumping the address cards on their desks, reminding them that it was a privilege to take part in the exchange program and that they were supposed to take it seriously, yadda, yadda... 

“That’s not a very French name, huh?“ Fiona had looked over, checking out Roger’s card. “Uh, nah... sounds rather Scottish, actually,“ Roger had agreed, studying the name written out in front of him. _Fergus Callau._

_Fergus._

It had taken Roger ages to write that first letter – he had wanted to make a good impression, to not seem a boring small-town boy. He hadn’t wanted to seem overeager, either, and after writing and rewriting the short paragraph several times, he had given up and kept it to the basics, choosing to add in a Soundcloud link to one of his own songs instead.

After that, it had only gotten easier. Mrs McCarthy’s “one letter“ rule surpassed without effort, Fergus and Roger had been exchanging letters for the better part of two months now, and Roger sometimes felt like a character straight out of a mediocre romcom, waiting eagerly for a new letter to arrive, barely containing himself long enough to take it to his room to read. And it really had a romantic touch, he thought - these letters made out of ink and paper, palpable, almost making you feel their writer’s secrets between your fingers in a way the harsh glow of a computer screen never would.

Fergus had a minimalistic way of writing, his letters never much longer than a single page, yet he always managed to make Roger feel heard and understood, and he never let the conversation die down by way of challenging Roger with intriguing questions.

_I love how you describe the feeling of loneliness in your song. Why have you chosen that topic?_

_What is music to you? What do you need it for?_

_I like your picture._

_When you’re here, we should find a guitar for you to play for me. I want to hear your real voice instead of its canned version._

_Is your girlfriend coming to Paris, too?_

Roger had questioned every one of his answering letters to the bone – had he understood Fergus’ intention right? Had he really discerned that one, possibly flirty undertone? Was that just the way French people wrote letters? Did he obsess too much? In the end, he had chosen to stick to honesty. 

_Aye, I sometimes feel lonely. I don’t really feel I can be all that open with the people in my life. Especially since my parents died._

_Music is my lifeline. It’s the one part of my day, where I feel I can be completely honest, with myself and with anyone who wants to listen. That, and when I write to you._

_I like your picture, too._

_I don’t have a girlfriend. Never had one, never wanted one._

He remembered his stomach’s nervous flutters, quite alike to the vibrations running through the airplane now, before take-off, when he’d read Fergus’ answering letter – the last one arriving before their trip.

_A boyfriend then?_

It had taken all his courage to bring to paper what he’d felt bubbling up under his skin at reading the simple question. He hadn’t told many people in his life – he hadn’t actively hidden it, either, but he’d never wanted to run around advertising his sexuality, and there hadn’t been a good reason to let everyone know so far.

_Haven’t met the right lad yet._

He had posted the letter four days ago. It should have arrived by now. They would touch down in Paris in less than two hours and he would get to see Fergus.

Fergus, with the long, wavy brown hair. Fergus, with the obscenely pretty eyelashes. Fergus, with the delicate swing of his nose. Fergus, whose picture Roger had stared at for an entirely embarrassing amount of time.  
___________________________________________________________________

 

“Ye look a little tense, Rog,“ Fi stated when the plane started dipping in approach of Charles-de-Gaulle, effectively jolting Roger out of his nervous pondering. “Huh?“ he asked, gaze fixed on the city growing bigger below them.

“Are ye scared of flying?“

He made a non-committal sound in his throat, choosing not to explain to her what was really on his mind, but he felt the tense muscles in his forearm relax a little when she rested her palm on it. 

And there it was – Paris – lying below them in all its glory, bathed in the early evening light of the autumn day. Roger caught a glimpse at best, before they were turning towards the outskirts of the city and flying too low to get a comprehensive picture. In his mind’s eye, it was enough – a quick flash burning an everlasting hologram into his retinas, the picture that would always cross his mind at the thought of Paris, forever shining with the expectant glow of his imagination of Fergus.

Twenty steps down the stairs to disembark the plane. Two-hundred and something steps to baggage claim – Roger had lost count over the excited chatter of his schoolmates at some point. Eight and a half minutes until their baggage arrived. Two minutes until the teachers had calmed them all down enough to remind them of the procedure; going out into the arrival area, meeting the exchange students and their families, going home with them for the first night and finally reuniting with the whole group at school the next day. 

Roger’s nerves were pulled taut to the point of snapping, his mind racing between thoughts of Fergus and a nagging little voice at the back of his head chastising for being so desperately over-invested in this relationship already. 

_Ifrinn, Wakefield, get yer shit together and don’t piss yerself. Ye’re only meeting an exchange student – albeit a verra attractive one._

He stood in the doorway to the arrival area before he could finish internally talking himself up, stopping dead in his tracks for a split second, trying to gather his wits. Only moments now. 

Roger made a conscious effort to bring his feet back to moving, only lifting his head to look for Fergus when he was sure his face wasn’t a pathetic mask of trepidation.

The hall was buzzing with people, greetings in different languages filling the air. Roger was briefly reminded of the opening scene of “Love, actually...“, a movie Mrs MacCarthy had made them watch before christmas break last year. Between hearty, emotional reunion scenes, Roger got to witness the first few of his classmates finding their exchange families and making timid acquaintances. He felt a little calmer for a moment, reassured, seeing their respective nerves on display.

“Roger.“

The nearly imperceptible French accent on the small word, his name, sent his nerves rushing back immediately. His stomach was in turmoil – especially after he finally spotted Fergus in the crowd, elbowing his way towards him – and his throat felt constricted, making him panic that he wouldn’t get out a word of greeting.

 _Damn ye, Roger Wakefield_ , the functioning part of his brain screamed at him, _ye’re making yerself look like a bloody fool!_

When Fergus reached him, there was no need for words, however. To Roger’s surprise, he found himself in a hug, two fleeting kisses pressed to his cheeks, Fergus’ smell (of apple shampoo and sandalwood) in his nose. He had to steady his knees.

When he eventually managed to speak, his voice sounded ridiculously hoarse to his own ears, the word a secret on his lips that he finally got to share after cherishing and guarding it for many weeks.

_“Fergus.“_

_“Bienvenue à Paris, mon ami!“_


	2. Part Two - The Minds

Roger had anticipated he would essentially be a nervous mess during their week in Paris, and the journey hadn’t done much to soothe his nerves, which was why it caught him completely off guard when he felt himself relax as soon as the Callau’s car had started towards the city.

 

Madame Callau had pulled him into a warm hug, kissing him on both cheeks, just like her son had done before her, and she hadn’t stopped talking since. She immediately made Roger feel at ease – her billowing, colorful skirt, the tinkling of her earrings and bracelets, and the traces of sandalwood in her smell mirroring her son’s – everything about her reminded him of the movies and pictures he’d seen from the 1960s.

 

“Call me Jeanne, _cheri_ ,” she told him and he felt a small stab of jealousy at Fergus’ incredibly cool, hippy mom. The familiar assault of sly sadness quickly followed, a feeling that accompanied each thought of his own parents.

 

“Everything alright?”

 

Fergus’ voice was still very new to his ears, he had barely spoken three sentences since Roger’s arrival. Still, Roger felt attuned to the sound of it, aware somehow, as if Fergus and he were on the same wavelength, their signals transmitting perfectly on the first try.

 

Roger nodded, letting Madame Callau’s descriptions of their plans for the week wash over him, and blend with the low music coming from the car’s stereo, the images of Parisian streets in the dusk, and Fergus’ proximity. Paris had given him a warm welcome.

 

 

On the first evening, through the window of the plane and later the Callau’s car, Paris had looked peaceful and romantic in a grand and elegant way. Over the next two days, it abandoned the picturesque façade, seemingly taking up speed like a enormous chairoplane. Now, it raced through its visitors hearts and minds like the gigantic, extravagant, metropolitan caleidoscope it was.

 

The _lycée_ ’s courtyard was nothing like his Highland high school’s. Several students were smoking openly, most girls wore heavy makeup and Roger felt like wherever he turned, there was a couple kissing.

 

In Inverness, all students had to wear the high school uniform. In Paris, it seemed like the French strived to be as unique as possible. There were certain corners of the courtyard where Roger felt like he had miraculously been dropped into a costume contest or a halloween party.

 

Despite all the extraordinary views Paris graced him with – be it people or sights – Roger found his gaze wandering to Fergus whenever his mind had a second to breathe between all the new impressions. From his letters, Roger had known Fergus to be thoughtful, sophisticated, interesting. From Fergus’ picture, he had anticipated beauty. But nothing could have prepared him for the intense attraction, the almost gravitational pull, he felt in Fergus’ presence.

 

It wasn’t just that he was beautiful – and he was, really, the picture didn’t do him and his long lashes, his soft, dark locks and his golden speckled eyes justice in the slightest. What Roger loved most about Fergus was what wasn’t visible to the naked eye. It was the little moments, the gestures, the looks and words that revealed the person under his skin, all the bits that shaped Fergus into who he really was.

 

It was the consistent teasing with which he manipulated Roger into picking up the guitar and playing one of his songs for the small group of French and Scottish students in Léon’s basement (“ _Vas-y, cheri,_ I want to hear your angelic voice on a melody” and “ _Non, vraiment,_ please! I will owe you one. Whatever you want”). It was the concentration, evident in the strong lines of Fergus’ face, when he listened intently to Roger’s singing. It was the private little smile and quick touch to his thigh, when, at the end of the song, he leaned closer to Roger, and the honest appreciation in his low “ _Merci,_ I loved it _.”_

 

It was the way Fergus seemed comfortable in all kinds of groups, at ease with all the people around him, socializing without effort, flashing smiles and exchanging quick but never banal words. It was the fact that, despite his obvious popularity, Fergus didn’t seem to look down on anyone, always a friendly greeting on his tongue. It was his conscious effort to include Roger in all those interactions; introducing him countless times, explaining inside jokes, telling sweet little anecdotes about everyone they met.

 

It was all these things that made Roger’s hopeless crush worse with every passing hour, but most of all it was their conversations. The long, private, intimate conversations they had before falling asleep – Roger lying on the air mattress on Fergus’ floor, Fergus sprawled out across his bed, never lying still for long.

 

“How long have you known?” Fergus asked on the second night. “That you’re gay, I mean.” He was lying on his stomach, head resting on his right arm, left arm dangling off the side of the bed.

 

“A few years. Fi and I have been friends since sixth grade and at some point everyone started wondering why we weren’t a couple, so I started wondering why I didna want to be... _”_

 

Fergus chuckled at that, shifting to his back so Roger could only see his hair hanging off the bed’s edge now and the sharp shape of his nose, distinct peak in the skyline of his body.

 

“What about her?”

 

Roger pondered that question for a moment. He had asked it himself before, but had never been able to come to a satisfying conclusion. He finally shrugged. “I dinna ken. If she ever had a thing for me, I dinna think she held on to it. I suspect she knows, although I never explicitly told her.”

 

“She sounds like a good friend.”

 

“Aye.” She was. Roger resolved to tell her then, lying on the floor of a Parisian appartement, minutes away from midnight. She deserved his honesty, his openness. He felt a surge of affection for reliable, funny, frank Fiona and then another one for Fergus, his understanding and caring. They had known each other barely two days and nine letters, yet Roger felt like Fergus had unpacked him completely, stripped him of all his walls and left the unprotected essence. And Roger found he didn’t mind one bit.


	3. Part Three - The Bodies

On Friday, they went to a party at Isabelle’s. It had been five days since they arrived – enough time to build the strong feeling of connection that typically accompanies exchange programs, born from the newness of relationships, the fast flood of exotic impressions, the closeness of quarters and the urgent press of time running out. The feeling was magnified by the impending end of their visit. They had barely two more days, bittersweet goodbyes looming over their heads.

The timing of the party – suspended at the end of the microcosmos of their Paris stay – might have been the reason that Roger felt the way he did; light-headed, relaxed, almost nostalgically happy. The several bottles of cheap wine they had shared might have also played their part in it, but if he was being honest with himself (and at this point he had given up all attempts at pretense), he knew perfectly well where the feeling stemmed from.

Fergus.

Tipsy Fergus was a sweet torture. He was apparently very conscious of the approach of Sunday’s goodbyes and hadn’t left Roger’s side all evening, leading agitated conversations without ever letting his gaze stray from Roger for longer than a few minutes.

Somebody had handed Roger a guitar earlier in the evening, and Roger had played two of his own songs, then accompanied a short sing-along, but people had long since moved on to party games and quiet corners. The guitar’s elegant neck now rested against Roger’s thigh, his thumb barely brushing the low E string in regular intervals, creating an almost unnoticeable sound and a pleasant vibration matching the buzz in his chest.

It took Roger by surprise when Fergus’ long fingers wrapped around the guitar’s neck. Only then did he notice that the conversation Fergus had been involved in had died down, and Marlène, Kenny and Iona had wandered towards the kitchen to replenish their drinks.

Fergus lifted the guitar in what Roger was sure was a deliberately slow and calculated movement, his knuckles softly brushing Roger’s thigh in the process, his clear blue eyes fixed on Roger’s darker ones. 

He stood, without a word, and grabbing Roger’s hand lead him quickly toward the bedroom where they’d left their coats, leaving the guitar on a couch in the living room.

„Where are we going?“ Roger asked, thinking to himself that it didn’t matter, that he would happily follow Fergus to the moon and back if he only asked.

Fergus tossed him his jacket in lieu of an answer and was already halfway out of the room, calling back: „Grab that bottle of wine on the dresser, will you?“ And Roger did as he was told, following Fergus into the chill of the Parisian night without a second thought.

It started on Paris’ cobblestones, on their endless and simultaneously brief, almost hasty journey home. They played into their own drunkenness, leaning on each other, a steadying hand on the other’s arm, a swaying bump to the other’s hip, a lingering hand holding onto cold fingers. They stopped to take turns drinking out of the snagged wine bottle, increasingly conscious of the fact that they were pressing their lips to the same small ring of glass, inching closer to each other with every stop, the bottle slowly emptying, their hearts impossibly filling.

Fergus stopped one last time on the corner of his street, setting down the empty bottle next to a trash can and leaning against the wall of the closed restaurant, the movement reminding Roger of Mrs Graham’s cat, just as fluid, just as perfectly elegant and lazy. In awe, he let Fergus tug him closer, wondering for a split second whether he’d maybe had too much wine.

Fergus’ hand wandered up Roger’s arm, finding purchase on the back of his neck, tangling in the ends of the unruly brown waves. With their foreheads connected they said nothing for a short while, just breathing the same air and Roger’s eyes slipped closed, his whole body focused on the sensation of Fergus’ fingers in his hair.

Fergus’ voice was lower, rougher than usual when he finally spoke, his grip on Roger tightening with his words, and shooting straight to Roger’s core.

„Fuck,  _ j’ai envie de toi...  _ Let’s go home, okay?“

After that, it was an unending string of snap-shots in Roger’s mind, each one a perfectly clear image, only their connection somehow lost in the intensity of sensation, each one a memory he would treasure like his own soul. 

Fergus’ lips on his own, hungry, tasting like wine and desire. Roger’s trembling fingers on Fergus’ shirt buttons. The first brush of groin against groin, the added friction of their jeans, the hunger for more. The feel of Fergus’ sheets on his back. The miles and miles of Fergus’ pale, exposed skin, and how soft and smooth it felt under Roger’s hands and mouth. The desperate little sounds dropping from Fergus’ lips, each one spurring Roger on beyond anything he’d known of himself. The delicious, foreign slide of their cocks against each other, the almost unbearable thrill of anticipation. The sheer unbelievable satisfaction in the end, the rush of giddy power in knowing he hadn’t just received, but also given. The stark contrast of their naked skin pressed together – Roger; dark, hairy, broad and Fergus; ivory, smooth, lean.

They lay awake until the early morning announced itself through the small skylight, never losing their connection, not of their bodies, not of their minds. Roger could physically feel the pull of morning’s approach, and he knew Fergus felt it too, both of them doing their best to resist it, to carve a few stolen moments for themselves from the unforgiving tree of time. 

It was only when the first sun hit their entangled legs that they let themselves drift off into sleep, escaping reality and finding refuge in their shared dreams of the passing night.

_ Only one more day. _

  
  



	4. Epilogue - More Letters

_ I told my great-uncle today. I think it might take him some time to wrap his head around it, but he said he’d already suspected something. _

 

_ Marlène had her pictures developed. There’s one of us from the party, you know, at Isabelle’s. You’re playing the guitar and I’m just looking at you. I can’t believe it’s already been two months. _

 

_ Next week, I get to play at the Hootananny in Inverness. It’s on a Thursday, so no big deal, but I think there’ll still be a few guests. I wrote a song about you... Maybe I’ll play it. _

 

_ Maman wants to send you some of the cheese you liked so much. I told her it’s a bad idea, you should just come visit again so she can feed you. I listened to the song. It’s perfect. _

 

_ I miss you. _

 

_ I miss you too. _

  
  



End file.
